


Miracle

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Fic, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2019-09-29 21:06:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17210960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: There’s nothing more diverting than a sick orphan at Christmas time.





	Miracle

Crutchie wasn’t walking so good. He wasn’t breathing so good, either, or keeping food down for that matter. His breakfast had come back out of him two blocks back, in a rush of sourness that Crutchie was afraid he’d associate with the taste of hard rolls and coffee for months to come. His good leg was shaky under him, and the handle of his crutch slippery damp from underarm sweat, even though it was the middle of December and about 87 degrees below zero outside, if Crutchie’s estimation was right.

Crutchie was sick. He was sick, sick, sick, and there was no denying it. Three years of relatively good health had departed as if they’d never existed in the first place, and in their stead came all the old worries that he’d spent half his life trying to fight past. Annoyance at the whole situation added a certain rough quickness to Crutchie’s steps, even as he became dizzier and colder with each clomp of his crutch upon the sidewalk.

Much later, waking up on the pavement with Jack kneeling over him, Crutchie at first mistook the pounding of his heart for the clatter of crutch and concrete, and it took him a few seconds to come to terms with the idea that he couldn’t be simultaneously collapsed on the ground, and walking loudly past himself.

Jack was quiet. He was too quiet. His face was drawn and young, and his hands were everywhere. Crutchie pushed Jack away. He was trying to get a coat onto Crutchie’s body, and that was something that Crutchie could do for himself. The Children’s Aid Society was liable to pick up kids who couldn’t put their own coats on and lock them up for their own good, especially around Christmas.

“Let me do that,” Jack said a second later, and Crutchie resolved to tell him very firmly once the world stopped spinning why that wasn’t what he wanted. “Jesus, Crutchie, you picked some place for a nap. If you weren’t burning up with fever you would’ve froze to death.”

“Like the girl with the matches,” Crutchie answered vaguely.

“Who?”

“The Christmas miracle. She died.”

“Not the kind of miracle I wanna talk about, Crutchie.” Jack said. He started to haul Crutchie to his feet, arms secure around him.

“I’m gonna explain so much to you later,” Crutchie promised. He’d make Jack understand.

“About Christmas stories where poor kids kick the bucket, so’s rich readers can learn the real meaning of the season? I got a different kind of miracle in mind, you got that?”

That wasn’t what Crutchie was going to explain, but he did understand.


End file.
